Page 3 of Breaking Rules

As Sam told Reese some of the details, Major, the station’s resident cat, made his appearance, his sleek black fur contrasting against the freshly painted walls. He sauntered over, taking a curious glance at the humans before sniffing Lucy. Sam braced himself, waiting for the usual skirmish, but none happened. After a few sniffs, Major simply sauntered off, his tail high in the air.

“It’s almost as if they have their own weird way of communicating now,” Jo said.

Just then, Kevin walked in, a white bag of donuts in his hand.

“Thought we could use a pick-me-up,” he said, heading past the post office boxes and into the bullpen area.

The squad room was simple. A few metal desks lined the walls, and a coffee machine and filing cabinet sat near the entrance. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows overlooking the town square and highlighting the scratches in the wide pine floors.

Wyatt, hunched over his desk with his eyes fixed on the computer screen, spoke as soon as they came in. “John’s got some prelim info,” he said in his usual concise manner. “Victim’s Alex Sheridan. Rents an apartment over at 34 Maple Street. Unmarried, no siblings. Parents, uh, Thomas and Elaine Sheridan, living in Florida. He was the campaign manager for Marnie Wilson and, before that, worked as an IT consultant.”

“Good work,” Sam took a donut out of the bag Kevin had handed to him and passed the bag to Wyatt. “Can you check on his finances? Particularly where he banked and if he had a safe deposit box?”

Wyatt’s brows rose a notch. “Sure.”

“We found a small key in his pocket. Seemed important.” Jo busied herself with the K-cup machine next to the filing cabinet, where Major sat perched like a silent overseer, his eyes following her every move.

Kevin pulled a chair aside, making himself comfortable, while Sam leaned casually against a nearby desk, his posture relaxed but his mind racing. Reese chose to lean against the wall, her position strategic to keep an eye on the reception area.

Wyatt looked up over the screen of his laptop. “John’s still working on the autopsy. No word yet on the manner of death,” he reported. “Oh, and I put the phone number for Alex’s parents on your desk.”

Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his gaze distant. “Water probably washed away any DNA we might have found on the victim,” he mused aloud. The possibility of losing crucial evidence was always a bitter pill to swallow.

Jo leaned against the desk, her arms crossed. “That’s assuming he was murdered,” she pointed out. “Could’ve been an accident.”

Sam nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the evidence photos. “It does seem strange he’d end up in the water like that... And those sneakers—if he was walking around the lake in the snow, you’d think he’d wear boots.”

“Good point,” Jo agreed. “The logical place to begin is by talking to his coworkers. That means a visit to Marnie Wilson’s campaign headquarters.”

Sam sighed, knowing what came next. “Right, but first, I need to make that call to Alex’s parents in Florida.” His voice was tinged with the solemnity that always accompanied the task of notifying next of kin. It was a part of the job that never got easier, no matter how many times he had to do it.

Sam walked into his office, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The room felt like a sanctuary, steeped in the history of the building. His desk, a massive wooden piece that had once served as a table in the old post office, bore the blue stamped postmark ink and staple holes—silent witnesses to its past life. Behind the desk, a large corkboard stood empty for now, but soon, it would be covered with crime-scene photos and notes, a visual map of the investigation.

Lucy followed him in, her presence a quiet comfort. She stayed close by his side, choosing to forgo her usual spot in the sun-drenched corner of the office. It was as if she sensed his need for her companionship, her intuitive nature attuned to his emotions.

On his desk, the phone number for Alex Sheridan’s parents glared up at him. It was a call Sam had made too many times before, yet it never got easier. He let out a heavy sigh, steeling himself for the task. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number, each beep echoing slightly in the quiet room.

As he waited for the call to connect, Sam glanced at Lucy, her brown eyes watching him knowingly. The comforting weight of her presence grounded him, a silent reminder of the bonds that made the difficult parts of his job bearable.

After the initial shock and exchange of information, Thomas Sheridan’s voice came through the phone, tinged with a mix of confusion and apprehension. “Chief Mason, what exactly happened to Alex? How did you find him?”

Sam took a deep breath, choosing his words with care. “Mr. Sheridan, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we found Alex’s body this morning under the ice at Gilham Bay. It appears he may have fallen through the ice, but we’re still investigating to understand exactly what happened.”

A sharp intake of breath was audible on the other end of the line, followed by a stifled sob. The reality of the situation seemed to hit them anew. “Under the ice?” Thomas repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, struggling to grasp the magnitude of what he’d just been told.

“Yes, sir.” Sam’s voice was gentle, infused with empathy, as he navigated the delicate conversation. “Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan, I’m sorry to have to ask, but were you close to Alex recently? Had you noticed anything unusual about his behavior?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, a heavy silence filled with unspoken grief. Then, Thomas Sheridan, Alex’s father, cleared his throat. “Why do you ask? Is there something suspicious?” There was a cautious edge to his voice, a father’s protective instinct even in the face of tragedy.

“We’re just covering all our bases,” Sam assured him softly, his words careful. He could hear the faint sound of crying in the background—Alex’s mother, no doubt overwhelmed by the news. Sam’s heart ached for them, but he knew these questions were necessary.

Thomas’s voice was firmer when he spoke again. “Alex was a bit out of sorts, but that’s understandable. His grandfather, Frank Milson, just passed away. They were very close. In fact, Alex is the executor of his will.”

Sam’s detective instincts kicked in, a flicker of alertness at the mention of a will. “Did Mr. Milson have a lot of money?” he asked, trying to tread lightly.

“No, nothing significant,” Thomas replied. “Frank lived a simple life.”

“Would anyone else be jealous of Alex being the executor?” Sam probed further, aware that family matters, especially those involving wills, could often be more complex than they appeared.

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